


No Angels

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:43:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: Taiga wants to say something, but it’s only going to get Shougo’s claws out further; he leans against the far divider instead and lets the water wash over him, try to rid himself of the stink of sweat and beer and disappointment.





	No Angels

**Author's Note:**

> no one was gonna fill my prompt so im doing it myself. haikaga play for the angels in this one lol (im not even sorry about the title)
> 
> happy late haikaga 6/10

Two outs, top of the ninth. Taiga pounds his glove, edging forward on the grass. He looks back at second; the runner’s not going anywhere. He looks back to the mound. Sweat is pouring down Shougo’s brow, down his face; he refuses to take his cap off and wipe it like always, stubborn in the dumbest ways (he says it makes him pitch better and, well, maybe it works; after that leadoff double he’d gotten two straight strikeouts on offspeed pitches; the count’s now two and two on the Astros’ fourth man up). He sets, not bothering to look back at the runner; the pitch comes in and Taiga knows almost as soon as the batter starts to swing that it’s not good.

The crack of the bat hammers it down in his mind; the ball soars through the air, over his head and then he loses it in the lights. It’s not his; there won’t be a play but he runs out onto the grass just in case, and as he feels the blades give under his cleats the ball clears the fence. Fuck, there goes the one-run lead, barely achieved and barely-held. The boos are already starting; Taiga’s already cringing. They deserve them, their division lead crumbling like a sea cliff, the offense disappearing, relying so heavily on Shougo that there is no margin for error but the more they overuse him the greater the chance he’ll make that kind of mistake grows.

If this was last year, they would have made the run back no problem in the bottom of the inning, no matter what part of the order was up. But this is this year; they can’t string together three hits in a row by sheer dumb luck. With this kind of attitude, the game’s already lost, and, well, Taiga’s not going to not try, but it’s hard not to let the defeat sink in from the grass up to the top of his head. There’s not even any applause when the fan who’d caught the homer throws it back on the field (and half the fans are getting up to leave; it’s not worth the disappointment to get stuck in worse traffic, and Taiga can’t really blame them).

On the mound, Shougo doesn’t look defeated. His shoulders are defiant; he’s already gazing in, waiting for the next batter. He stares in; Taiga tells himself to focus. They’re not going to let it get out of hand. Shougo goes into the windup, kicks and fire; the fastball runs in on the batter’s hands but he swings anyway. It’s popped in the air, third-base side.

“Mine!” Taiga yells.

He squints into the floodlights and there it is, the ball floating down and gathering velocity; his glove’s up and then the ball lands in it with a dull smack. Three out. Taiga’s halfway over to the pitcher’s mound; he waits for Shougo and tries to give him an encouraging tap on the ass or at least on the shoulder but Shougo brushes him off. Taiga heads back behind him, looking at the ground, trying to figure out what would let him get up. The fans are yelling in the background, heckling; he tries to tune them out (it gets harder). And then, a flash of white and red uniform, and he looks up--Shougo’s diving into the grandstand, right next to the dugout; a half-empty cup of beer’s been thrown at his chest. Taiga races after him; Shougo’s shout is wordless as he leaps.

Shougo’s got the beer-thrower in a headlock by the time Taiga reaches him; some other fan punches Shougo’s cheek and he stumbles back. Taiga catches him before he falls, trying to drag him back and away. He doesn’t notice the cup of beer that comes his way until it’s on him, soaking his hat and hair and ear, pouring down the side of his neck. 

“Shougo, it’s not worth it; get off.”

“No,” Shougo snarls, voice tight and breaking, and then Taiga’s getting pulled by someone else; he surrenders to it. It’s their fifth starter, telling him to ease off and that he’s going to get fucking ejected and probably fined but whatever. Taiga doesn’t give a damn right now.

It takes two guys to pull Shougo off, and a stadium guard to subdue his opponent, who’s still yelling random obscenities. Shougo’s cap is off, lost somewhere in the stands probably; if the umpire hadn’t tossed him their manager probably would. They both get shoved into the tunnel and told to go shower, and Taiga doesn’t need to be told twice. Shougo’s got his hands in his back pockets, half-slumped.

“Hey,” says Taiga.

Shougo shoves his hand away this time. 

“What did he say to you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Shougo, walking faster.

“Shougo—”

“Shut up, asshole.”

He’s already pulling off his jersey, necklaces getting tangled but he doesn’t seem to care. Taiga hasn’t seen him this angry and desperate and sloppy since before he’d even known Shougo well, but this time Taiga can feel the anger rising all over again in his own arms, the heat in his head, wanting and needing to fucking do something, anything, about what had done this to Shougo. That asshole who calls himself a fan, pinning it all on Shougo probably when he’s coming into what seems like half the games because the lead’s too slim or they have a chance to win and he’s been stellar. A handful of blown saves, scattered the way they are for every closer, and yeah, Shougo had blown the last one, too, but that was yesterday afternoon and they’d asked him to get seven outs, and putting him right back out there isn’t going to do a damn thing. They can’t ride him to the playoffs when their starters can barely get out of jams in the fifth inning and when no one else in the bullpen knows how to step up. They can’t give him one-run leads, maybe two, never three, and expect him to finish them all. It’s a function of the team’s incapacity to win decisively that they have to rely on him so much, and fuck. It makes Taiga want to do something.

Shougo knows what he wants to do; he’s kicking the divider between the shower stalls; it rattles against the bolts that hold it in place. There’s a jolt from up higher and a hiss of pain; it sounds like Shougo’s punched it and it hurt, and all of a sudden the anger falls away, worry and concern sprouting up in jagged chunks in its place. Taiga wants to say something, but it’s only going to get Shougo’s claws out further; he leans against the far divider instead and lets the water wash over him, try to rid himself of the stink of sweat and beer and disappointment.

* * *

They get a hell of a talking-to afterward; there’s going to be further discipline from the league, likely suspensions; it’s at the wrong time for the Angels’ playoff hopes but they’ll appeal and push it back. At least Shougo lets Taiga stand close in the manager’s office, and at least he follows him to their car instead of splitting off to God-knows-where.

Shougo flicks on the radio, turns the volume down so low it sounds like mumbling, and then stares out the window. Taiga passes their exit and keeps driving; they’re not getting much sleep tonight so they might as well drive around for a while until Shougo gives (even if it’s just a little bit). Shougo probably won’t tell him tonight, maybe not for a while, but hopefully someday. The bright red mark on his cheek stands out where he’d been punched; even when he’s turned away Taiga can see it in the glow from the lights outside. He sighs, softly; Taiga wants to reach out and stroke his hair. He puts both hands on the wheel instead.

They stop for gas off the highway; they’re the only ones there save for a diesel pickup on the far side. Taiga leans on the side of the car and waits for the gas to flow; he hears the sound of the door and then Shougo’s out. He looks at Taiga over the car; Taiga reaches his hand out onto the roof. He looks down at the gas pump. Shougo’s fingers brush his knuckles. 

“Let’s go home,” he says, head turned to the sky, as if saying it to the invisible stars.

“Okay,” says Taiga. “Let’s.”

Shougo pretends to fall asleep the rest of the way back, but if it lets Taiga cover his hand on the edge of the seat, it’s not a bad trade.


End file.
